What the vacuum keeps
The ephemeral consciousness of being, and the longing that seeps through this universe. The greater trajectory of leaving and being left stands small before those who watch it unfold. The nights where tears ricochet, and the tiny yet eternal lights that make someone name a crater after their wife, stand still in the face of all this sehnsucht.
The incandescent rage that binds one soul to another in an event of absolute cataclysm absorbs all that the universe sends their way. Abundant, yet empty. In astronomy, it is defined as a paradox that does not let a giant sink. For the world, it is a miracle; for the heart, a hope. The rage carries on—undefeated.
Conceited, one wanders this world, creating distances that supersede time and time that supersedes life. Multiple versions collide at one common point, seeing eye to eye, reacting infinitely similarly. Yet it is so quiet in the black expanse of this realm.
In the grand scheme of things, the world has stopped creating moments; everything has gone dry, the motion is dying a slow death. And yet, we are alive—feeling, burning, naming craters after our lovers, writing poetry, singing songs, living, breathing, crying, dying.
In the final undoing of all that burns, even absence acquires a mass nothing escapes. Longing becomes the final surrender.
Copyright © Manya Saxena | Year Posted 2026
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